


echoes

by debilitas



Category: Borderlands (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Flashbacks, M/M, Memories, Pining, Pre BL2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:21:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21882190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/debilitas/pseuds/debilitas
Summary: Any Slab worth his salt knows about the suitcase hidden away in their King’s private room.
Relationships: Brick/Mordecai (Borderlands)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 59





	echoes

**Author's Note:**

> made [this](https://twitter.com/transbrick/status/1208048507522867200?s=21) tweet then pumped this out in 4 hours hello

Any Slab worth his salt knows about the suitcase hidden away in their King’s private room. It’s a beat up thing, heavy, with two separate padlocks keeping it closed. Even the most trusted of Slabs have never seen its contents.

Brick knows his Slabs talk amongst themselves, conspiring about what he keeps in the case. A million bucks, a vault key, a picture of Handsome Jack without the mask. The theories have gotten increasingly creative over the years, so much so that they’d likely be disappointed by what it really holds. 

It once belonged to Mordecai, one of the few personal possessions he held onto through the years of traveling the galaxy. The leather on the handle and all four corners is cracked and frayed, material across the case heavily sunbleached. A half-destroyed sticker displaying _Visit Artemis!_ is stuck in the upper left corner, faded almost beyond recognition.

Brick grabbed it in a hurry, tossing his small collection of clothes and other belongings inside, Shep’s blood still staining his hands. Roland watched him pack in silence, then escorted him to Sanctuary’s gates. No one came to say their goodbyes.

He opened it again after becoming King, emptying it of the few necessities, then padlocked the rest inside. They were too hurtful, too fresh of a wound to be easily accessible by anyone. Especially the last one.

Now, Brick sits on the roof of his quarters, a beer taken from the galley in one hand, and the case in the other. It’s been two years since he opened it, and he briefly wonders if it’s worth breaking the commitment of ignoring it. He reflects on the events of the night.

He’d been sitting at a table, watching his Slabs tuck into their big meals and talk amongst themselves. Bragging about how many Hyperion they’d killed that day, new gear, how bad the food was. The usual. 

It was then that a feeling of despair washed over Brick. He realized then that even amongst his loyal crew of men, he felt truly alone. None of his Slabs were his friends— not even acquaintances. They were a disposable necessity, and he wouldn’t miss them if they all got up and left that minute.

It’s a foreign concept to Brick, to have no connections to anyone. To live severed and detached, caring for and protecting no one but himself. It weighs heavy in his soul, and makes his big heart ache. The life of a bandit was made for more selfish men.

Nobody noticed when he got up from his unfinished meal, grabbed a new bottle from the packed cooler, and left. 

Brick takes another swig of liquid courage, then works the small keys into each individual padlock. He tucks them back into a pocket of his vest when he’s done, chucking the two locks onto his bedroom floor from the window he’s above.

The hinges of the case creak when he opens it, metal rusty and coated in a layer of dust. The fabric inside is worn from neglect, completely gone in a few places. It’d been a nice suitcase, once. 

In the center of the suitcase are three Echo logs, dates scratched onto the front in his own messy handwriting. He reaches for the oldest one, identifiable by its beat-up exterior even if the date wasn’t there. Brick knows what it contains, but isn’t quite sure how it starts. He pushes the log inside his Echo, and it whirs to life.

Lilith’s obviously tipsy voice comes through the speakers first. 

_“C’mon, Mordy! Show him how to play!”_

Brick takes another sip, cracking a smile as the memory comes to life in his mind. 

They were all crammed into his room in New Haven at the end of a very long day, plenty of drinks in and mindlessly snacking on expired crackers. He had no furniture beyond a too-small bed, so they were all positioned on the dirty floor. Lilith was laying on her belly next to Roland, who sat cross-legged, shooting him glances that were anything but subtle.

Mordecai was across from them, next to Brick, and leaning against his wooden bed frame as he shuffled through a deck of cards. It was his first time going without the mask in front of the group, lantern light casting shadows over his hooked nose. Brown eyes almost black under heavy lids.

“ _Tranquila,_ ” Mordecai had replied, word slurred at the end. Brick didn’t know what it meant at the time. “I can’t be giving up my secrets like that.”

“Secrets?” Lilith echoed, skeptical.

“It’s just Blackjack,” Roland snorted, then took another swig. He smiled more when he was tipsy.

Mordecai groaned in defeat, then cut the deck. They were well-used, secondhand cards that he’d gotten from a kid after letting them pet Bloodwing earlier that day. 

“Y’know I used to count cards?” He asked, pressing the pad of his thumb against his tongue. He was facing Brick while he said it, Lilith and Roland already chattering amongst themselves again.

“What’s that?” Brick had responded, watching the other man’s tongue as it darted out, a flash of pink. He was too big of a guy to get drunk from half a bottle at most, but the alcohol warmed his chest. Watching his friends was fun, though, giggling through their words with ruddy cheeks.

“Cheatin’,” was his reply. He chuckled to himself as he slowly dealt the cards. “See, I was still young— just a little bit more good lookin’ than I am now— “

It was meant to be a joke, but Brick didn’t take it as one.

“— So everybody thought I was stupid. Too dumb to counting their cards. Heh. I sure proved them wrong.”

Brick looked down at his own cards, symbols unfamiliar. “Maybe you could teach me.”

“Really?” Mordecai raised a skeptical brow at him. Brick still remembers the way the man’s lips twitched when he said, “People got a habit of underestimating you, big guy?”

Brick’s mouth dried. Before he could answer, Lilith piped up again.

“You tellin’ your boring stories again, Mordy?”

Mordecai argued that his stories were always interesting, took another swig, and the log ends. He’d spent the rest of the night teaching Brick how to play Blackjack, sitting so close their arms touched with each movement.

Brick pops the log out of his Echo and tosses it back in the case. Taking a moment to absorb it, he looks out into the moonlit desert beyond. Being with them, from early on, came so naturally. They were radically different people from radically different places, yet somehow melded together seamlessly. Until they didn’t. 

It’s a luxury to indulge in their company again, even if he’s just rummaging through old memories. He picks up the second log, inserting it with no hesitation.

The log starts out quieter than the previous one, and mid sentence.

_“— you guys can’t beat that. There’s no way.”_

It’s Lilith again. The fog around the memory starts to clear. They were out in the desert, around a campfire and comparing scars. The little competition started after one of them asked where the big one across Brick’s face came from, then spiraled from there.

Lil went first, and had shown off a massive one on her shin, from where’d she’d broken it as a little girl. Roland gave a respectful nod, then pulled his shirt up and over his chest to reveal an old gunshot entrypoint.

Brick let out a whistle at the exposed muscle, and the others followed. They all hollered and made lewd gestures as Roland shook his head in disapproval, readjusting his shirt. 

“Got shot,” he added needlessly.

“With steroids?” Mordecai interjected. Brick remembers wondering if he was trying to avoid taking his turn showing a scar.

“You are absolutely not saying that, next to our resident bodybuilder.”

Brick chuckled awkwardly, unsure if he should be offended. Mordecai then grabbed one of his arms, jostling it for emphasis.

“Hey, this beef is all-natural,” he turned to him, unreadable behind the leather mask. “Right?”

“Right.” Brick answered proudly, unable to suppress his grin. He felt like a kid with a crush, thinking nothing more than _he likes me, he likes me!_

“You’re saying this isn’t?” Lilith said, taking the opportunity to feel up one of Roland’s biceps as she spoke. “This is all hard-earned muscle, carved out by the _gods._ ”

“Calm down,” Roland replied, with no real sternness. 

“What about you, Mordy?” Brick had asked, taking the leap of snaking an arm over the other man’s shoulders. “You got any scars?”

“Do I have scars, he says,” Mordecai snarked to no one in particular. “I’ve got you all beat.”

Slender hands squeezed between the back of his head and Brick’s arm to reach his neck. He unzipped the mask, pulling it off with much ceremony, giving the leather a flap before he dropped it in his lap. He gripped Brick’s hand, the one thrown over his shoulder, and maneuvered it to the side of his skull.

When he found the right place, he pressed Brick’s fingers into his scalp. Through the coarse hair, warmed by the sun, he felt something very hard.

“Is that… metal?”

“Titanium.”

“No way,” Lilith said.

Roland added, “What’d you do?”

Mordecai’s smirk faded, and he shrugged Brick’s hand away. He wouldn’t look at them when he muttered, “Fell down some stairs.”

They all erupted in laughter at his expense. What a mundane injury for such a drastic outcome. The group teased Mordecai for a while longer, before declaring him the winner of their contest. The log ends.

Brick touches his own exposed scalp, recalling the feel of the metal plate under Mordecai’s. He always said it hurt him in the cold, and would brag to kids that it made him bulletproof. (It most certainly didn’t.)

Brick returns the second log, and his smile fades when he picks up the third and final one. It’s the same make and model of the others, but feels infinitely heavier in his palm. Stroking it with an oversized thumb, he considers once more if he should play it. Where the others gave him the bittersweet taste of nostalgia on an otherwise miserable night, he knows this one will not do the same.

Preparing for the heartache it’ll bring, Brick puts the log into his Echo.

Blankets rustle against the device’s microphone, mattress springs squeak, followed by a noticeably sleepy groan.

Brick closes his eyes, releasing a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. He feels the rough sheets against his skin, the warm body beside him, like he’s still there. Almost.

_“What’re you doing, mi vida?”_

Mordecai’s voice was particularly scratchy when he first woke up. He’d been laying on his side, sluggishly shifting to his back when Brick stretched an arm over him. Brick watched him rub the sleep from his eyes, giving the Echo a confused blink. 

“Say it again,” Brick said, Echo in-hand as he rested his chin on Mordecai’s bare chest. 

“Huh? Oh,” Mordecai’s mouth stretched into a smug smile. “ _Mi vida._ ”

Brick hears himself hum in the log while he instinctively does the same. The words cut straight to his heart like they always did, making it race. His stomach churns in time, tying itself into knots. _Mi vida._

Of course his past self recorded it. He played the log back in Sanctuary, too, whenever the other man was gone overnight. Words wrapping around him like a blanket. _Mi vida. My life._

The log was taken on a Sunday morning, on one of their few days off. No Raider business, no people to maim. They’d spent the previous afternoon together, goofing off in a spare outrunner. It had felt like the old days, before the vault, before the Raiders.

There’s an extended silence, minus the movements of the bedding and deep, steady breathing. Brick knows exactly what happens next, and would do anything to switch places with his past self.

Brick had moved his head further up, and pressed his lips against Mordecai’s brow. The aged skin was warm, and smelled faintly of the sandalwood cologne the man used. They eventually transitioned into real kissing, and the slow, wet noises coming through the Echo make Brick’s face flush with heat.

There was no such thing as _casual_ kisses between them. Brick would get over excited and eager, clumsy tongue making itself known too early. 

Hands started to wander, and Mordecai pushed Brick over and onto his back. The Echo picked up the sounds of the movement, then the shuffle of Mordecai picking it up.

So many of Brick’s memories of Pandora revolve around admiring Mordecai, but every occasion paled in comparison to that morning. He looked perfect in the soft sunlight, dreads hanging loose around his shoulders and straddling Brick’s narrow hips.

The volume abruptly increases when Mordecai brought the device closer to his mouth.

“Hey, future Brick—“

Brick’s stomach drops despite himself.

“— Hope you enjoy what’s about to be the worst sex tape.”

The log devolves into their mutual laughter, noises of him wrestling the device out of Mordecai’s hands, and cuts out. 

An old, familiar ritual, Brick immediately rewinds the tape, playing Mordecai’s second _mi vida_ again. He releases a shaky exhale, eyes burning with the threat of tears. If he’d known what he knows now, he would’ve kissed deeper, held tighter. Said what he really wanted to.

_I love you._

Loneliness claws at Brick’s chest once more, newly poisoned with regret. If only Mordecai knew he loved him, he might’ve understood why he did what he did.

Killing Shep was wrong, but his reasons to do so weren’t. Shep put the people he loved in danger, split their family at the seams. The rage enveloped Brick like a fire, helped kept aflame by the countless injustices Pandora had dealt him. No matter how strong he was, how hard he squeezed, it kept ripping things from him.

A gentler man would have felt immediate remorse with another’s skull crushed between his hands. Brick was not that man. 

He’d turned around, letting Shep’s form drop to the ground below. Mordecai, Roland, and a handful of Raiders stood before him, faces frozen in terror. Some were even brave enough to aim their weapons toward him.

Flame still burning, Brick took long strides over to Mordecai, not missing the instinctive step the other man took away from him. Brown eyes bore into him through thick goggles, and Brick could only imagine the expression concealed behind them. 

He wanted to plead his case to Mordecai, beg him to understand that he did it for him. That while it may have looked like impulsive violence, it was an act of protection. But even he would doubt the credibility of a man spattered with fresh blood.

“What did you do?” Mordecai asked, quiet enough so only Brick could hear. It was the last thing he said to him.

Brick looks out onto Slabtown, blanketed in the inky night, and knows he is king of nothing.


End file.
